“What else could it be then? You think this murderer just doesn’t like teenagers and that they just keep happening to kill people from our school?”
Damaris snorts a laugh.
“Exactly! You think it’s ridiculous too. Just like it’s ridiculous to think that no one outside of the academy knows about otherworldly beings like us. Hazel is the second seraphim death so far,” I say, recounting the tally I’ve been keeping ever since the murders started. “And there have been three nephilim deaths too—all students from the academy. You can’t say that’s a coincidence.”
“Okay, sure. Fine. But it’s not any of our students and staff, which means it’s someone from outside the academy. So, how would they know about us? We go to great lengths to keep ourselves hidden.”
I stifle the laughter threatening to burst from my throat. If he means the very conspicuous cloaks we have to wear when we leave the compounds, then he’s more delusional than I thought.
He must catch me smirking because he rolls his eyes and tugs at the collar of the cloak hanging open at his chest. “No, I don’t mean this. There are enchantments that make sure no one stumbles onto the academy by accident. Then there’s also that weird law of nature where our wings and horns just disappear when we die.”
I acquiesce. I suppose there are other ways in which we are kept hidden. I’ve even heard of some memory spells that can be used to make mortals forget things they’ve seen or heard that they shouldn’t have.
“But more importantly,” Damaris adds. “No one even knows about the school until they need to.”
A memory, singed in sepia, burns into my mind of the very moment I learned of the Academy of the Forsaken.
I bolted upright from bed to the sound of thunder, low like a mountain lion’s growl, just outside my bedroom window. Feeling the hair on my arms and neck rise, I looked out my bedroom door across the hallway to my sister’s room, hoping for the sense of security that seeing her always gave me. But of course, the door was closed. It had been ever since her death.
Frustrated, I threw myself back against my pillow. But just as my head started to sink into the mound of feathers, someone whispered into my ear. They weren’t words exactly, nor do I think there was even any actual sound. It was just a message, sent to me because it was time.
I might’ve been terrified had the meaning not been so crystal clear, had it not imbedded itself into my very core: there was a place for people like me, and this was my invitation.
I’m not sure if everyone hears a whisper in the middle of the night, but I know Damaris is right. When you need to know about the Academy of the Forsaken, you find out.
“I don’t know how they know about us, but they do,” I finally reply, exasperated because he’s found the one hole in my logic that I can’t fill. “Maybe their best friend got her heart broken by a seraphim, or maybe a nephilim killed one of their aunts or uncles, or a sibling or something.”
I swallow hard. The thought makes me think of my own mother. If she ever found out what I really am, what I did to one of her only two daughters, would she seek vengeance? I honestly can’t say with any certainty that she wouldn’t.
Before I can finish the thought though, and before we get a chance to finish our conversation, I notice that we’ve started to attract too much attention. A nearby vendor is staring at us, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking we look suspicious enough to be the murderers, or if he’s assessing us as his next victims. Literally everyone looks like a suspect right now to me.
“C’mon,” I say, motioning for Damaris to follow me. “We should hurry back to the academy. Everyone’s probably worried about the alarm.”
“You bet they are. Why do you think I came out here looking for you?”
My jaw unhinges. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” But my bewilderment is quickly stifled when an image of the Head Mistress’s face flashes in my mind. I wince. This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve chased after the dead students after she’s explicitly asked me not to. “Did…anyone else notice I was gone?”
One of his eyebrows rises. “Every time they sound that alarm another student winds up dead.” With a crooked grin, he adds, “Nah, I’m sure no one thought to do a head count.”
My fist finds his shoulder blade.
“Ow, watch it,” he chuckles, rubbing his back like it’s actually tender. “If you break my wings, I get to break one of your horns.”
My inclination is to threaten him in return, but there’s something about the air of death surrounding us that makes even jokingly suggesting you’d ram your horns into someone’s orifices seem insensitive.
“Come on,” I say again instead, my voice gravelly with mock annoyance. “Let’s try to make it back before we cause too much panic.”
xxx DEATH OF A REPUTATION xxx
When we arrive back to the Academy of the Forsaken, we’re welcomed with relieved sighs and tight embraces. Well, Damaris is. Since I’m still the new girl, some of the other students are just polite enough to nod at me, but only a few. The rest of them have already done the math: if Damaris, Hazel, and I were missing, and only Damaris and I have returned—well, it’s written all over their faces that they sort of wish I had taken Hazel’s place, someone none of them knew or loved.
Over the tops of students’ heads, I see a cloud of kinky hair moving toward us, three conical horns peeking from out of it. Our classmates part and the Head Mistress glides forward. She halts beside us, assessing Damaris first before peering down at me from behind thin, square spectacles, one eyebrow pulled back slightly.
I recognize that look. The last time I was caught chasing after the murders, she told me to stop. Maybe told isn’t the right word. Asked? Hoped? At the time, I guess I just shirked it off as a request to be careful—which I have been—but seeing her now makes me realize that my choice has disappointed her.
My stomach squeezes in on itself. Ever since I came here, she’s been nothing but kind to me. More than kind. She’s offered me more guidance than anyone here. Dare I say that even in the short month I’ve known her, I’ve come to see her as family. Definitely the closest thing to family I have these days anyways.
She takes a step forward, the length of her dress trailing behind her like a majestic, red wedding gown. I imagine it’s hard being responsible for the safety of so many people who keep dropping like flies. I bow my head in shame, but to my relief, she doesn’t chastise me. She lifts my chin and I see in her eyes that, for now, she’s just relieved we’re alive.
There’s something more behind her gaze too though, something searching, asking.
I nod grimly. “It was Hazel,” I say, before telling her all that I saw, which I’m sad to admit isn’t much. With every death, it’s been the same: a dead body found on their back with their eyes bulging open, frozen in what I can only assume is fear.
Solemnly, the Head Mistress purses her lips until they nearly disappear. I don’t know why, but I feel like she knows something she’s not telling us. Not like she’s a part of all of these murders or anything, but like she’s trying to protect everyone from some terrible knowledge.
If I could ever find the words to ask her directly and respectfully, I might. But right now, in front of the entire student body, is definitely not the time or the place.
She steps past me to address everyone.
“Darkness plights us again, my pupils. A time of mourning is upon us, for young Hazel Lockwood of the Silver Seraphim has been taken from us.”
She pauses, allowing for a brief moment of surprise and grief from the students. Some gasp, but considering our classes are so small and most people have figured it out by now that Hazel was the latest victim, most have moved onto sobbing.
“A vigil will be held for her later this evening at the bell tower. Until then, I must insist that classes continue as scheduled.”
Murmurs rise as students exchange outraged whispers. Even I’m surprised by this decree. With the last four deaths, we had at leas
t been given a day off so that people could mourn properly.
The Head Mistress holds up a hand and waits until everyone quiets. They do, promptly, reverentially.
“Danger is among us,” she explains. “And now more than ever, your studies are imperative to your ability to protect each other and yourselves.”
Danger is among us? It seems like she’s almost suggesting that whoever is responsible is right here with us in the courtyard.
I must not be the only one to conclude that from her speech, because other students join me in nervously scanning our fellow classmates for potential culprits. I accidentally make eye contact with a few of them, and at first it feels a little awkward, but when I notice that I’m making eye contact with almost every student, the weight of their glares presses in on me. I realize they’re not looking around at all of the possible murderers like I am. They’re looking at me.
They think I’m the murderer.
For a split second, I’m outraged, but then I remember that at least two of the deaths happened right beside me. The first was a girl named Vega, who died in the bed beside mine. The second—which was actually the fourth murder—was my Curses & Herbs partner, Demetre. He died on our class walk from the classroom to the greenhouse. He had been at the back of the line, with me right in front of him, and it wasn’t until we were inside and I was standing at our work station that I even realized he was missing.
Even though there are no direct connections between me and any of the other deaths, it doesn’t help that I’ve charged headfirst to the other crime scenes as well. I get how suspicious that can look, but they don’t understand. I can’t just sit back and watch someone else die. I only go to the crime scenes because I want to help, I want to make sure no one else is murdered.
But how would they understand that. I doubt any of them accidentally killed their twin sister just after their sixteenth birthday. None of them see her reflection staring back at them every time they look in a mirror. None of them have nightmares about accidentally misusing the power they didn’t even know they had.
If they did, if anyone understood what any of that was like, they’d be desperate to stop people from dying all around them too.
I don’t need any more ghosts haunting my dreams.
But I can’t explain myself here. Not now, and maybe not ever. Not to the people who have already condemned me.
I’m suddenly grateful for the cloak still loosely draped over the points of my horns, and I sink back into the shadows it offers.
“I implore you to remain at the academy at all times,” the Head Mistress continues, her eyes fixed pointedly on me when she says it. This time, there’s no mistaking the direct order, and considering the heat I’m under from the student body, I might have to consider listening for once. “But, regardless of where you are, exercise the caution of a doe, and the cleverness of a fox. Follow your instincts always and keep yourselves from danger.”
Almost as if on cue, the brassy clang of the academy bell chimes in the tower, signaling the hour of first class.
Like most of the other students, I go through my day a bit more distracted than usual. Withdrawn might be a more accurate word in my case. Not only is there a murderer on the loose, but I’m also apparently the number one suspect. Honestly, I’m not even sure if I’m mad at them for it. After all, I might be the only student here who has murder in their track record, even if it was accidental.
In Illusion Manipulation class, the students that usually share a table with me all conveniently need to sit elsewhere. One of them says she needs to sit by the window to channel the sunlight for her grief-cleanse. Another says that he’s contracted some demonic virus and doesn’t want me to catch it. The third and the fourth simply cram themselves in at another desk without giving any excuse. At least they didn’t outright lie to me like the others. Somehow, that makes it sting less.
Once I get to my Demonic Possession class, no one will partner with me for our daily practices. Normally we take turns being the possessor and the possessee, but today no one will even let me be their dummy. I’m left trying to possess inanimate objects instead, a skill that even most second- and third-year students haven’t tried tackling. After all, it’s significantly more challenging to try to infiltrate and manipulate something with no familiar conscious and movable limbs.
By the time lunch comes around, I’m eager to find Damaris, the only person who seems to be willing to interact with me. But of course, of all the days he can do his divinity meditation, he gets called to do it today.
“Meet me in the field at the end of the day,” he calls over his shoulder with a smile before catching up with a few other seraphim and disappearing out of sight.
Just like that, I’m left eating lunch by myself under the willow tree in the courtyard.
The second half of my day starts just as rough as the first.
Of all of my studies, Teleportation has proven to be the most challenging. Every other first-year student seems to at least be able to grasp the basic premise after one or two tries. Meanwhile, every time I attempt the first step of conjuring up a mental image of my destination, I see that dark opening in my bathroom swallow Moirai again. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t accidentally teleported back home. The professor has tried giving me pointers on concentration and asking me what I see when I try, but I’m too ashamed to tell him. I’d rather suffer in silence.
If concentrating is difficult on normal days, it’s impossible today. While my classmates successfully teleport from one end of the field to another, or to and from different checkpoint locations across the school grounds, I remain planted in the field with my eyes and fists clenched, pretending to try, but far too preoccupied. I can’t stop thinking about Hazel and the other students. None of it makes any sense. Because the bodies are so rigid and unmoving, I have to assume that it’s the work of a nephilim or seraphim. But Damaris is right. With the enchantment in place, the murderer can’t be anyone here, and if it’s not anyone here, then what motive would they have? An employee that was fired? A former student who was expelled—if that’s even a thing here? One of the professors’ spouses?
“She’s just faking it,” I hear one of my classmates whisper, loud enough that I don’t think she cares if I hear her or not. “I bet that’s how she got Hazel. She grabbed her here, and teleported out of the academy so that it would look like someone else did it.”
“Yeah, well,” a male student answers, his words edged like a blade. “She won’t be getting away with it for much longer.”
My body is suddenly flooded like there’s a current roaring inside me. Grief, and outrage, and frustration, churn in my chest until I just want to scream. I’ve held my tongue long enough.
By the time I open my eyes to confront my classmates though, they’re gone.
Teleportation class ends, and I shuffle through the courtyard back to the main hall, and into my final class of the day—and easily my favorite—Necromancy.
It’s usually reserved for the most advanced nephilim students, but it was my one condition for enrolling here. In return, the Head Mistress had a stipulation of her own: under no circumstances was I to practice any of the necromancy spells outside of the classroom.
I agreed of course, at least in words, but my heart had its fingers crossed. Why else would I be taking the class if not to be able to use what I learn to resurrect my sister?
As luck would have it though, I learned pretty quickly that necromancy isn’t about bringing the dead back to life, it’s the ability to communicate with the dead, which I guess is better than nothing. I mean, at the very least I just want to be able to tell Moirai I’m sorry, and to tell her I loved—love her.
Despite my tireless studies though, the one time I tried making contact, the spell blew up in my face.
During my first week at the academy, the professor had us practice visual seances in class—where, using a photo of someone who’s died, you can call their spirit from the afterlife and, for a brief m
oment, they animate the photo. She had us using pictures of historical figures from our textbooks—important nephilim and seraphim I had never even heard of. I have to admit it was interesting, but I had more important plans in mind for the spell.
Later that evening I tried it myself.
I didn’t have a photo of Moirai though, so instead, I used my own reflection. I knew it was a longshot because, even though we’re identical twins, it doesn’t mean that there aren’t any differences between us—Moirai’s nose was always a little smaller, her hair wavier, and she had a mole under her right eye. But I had solutions for all of that.
I plastered on layers of coverup to make my nose appear smaller, and I used another student’s curling iron to set some loose curls in my hair. Using eyeliner, I dabbed a dot on my bottom eyelid. It wasn’t exact, but it was the best I could do and I hoped it would be enough for the spell to work.
I lit the three candles just as we were instructed in class. One to draw the spirit, one to anchor the host—in this case, the mirror—and one to protect the caster. Then I spoke the words.
“Moirai, et vocavi te.” Moirai, I summon you.
A chill blew through the room and one-by-one, each of the candles blew out. I was certain the spell had worked. The mirror shook in my quivering hands as I stared at my own reflection, waiting for my sister’s face to appear. But then the mirror started cracking. The line spread diagonally, starting at the center and creeping up the sides until my face was split in two. Then, it shattered completely, blood and glass covering the floor.
I haven’t tried again since. Partially because I’m too embarrassed, but also because I’ve grown closer to the Head Mistress and I don’t want to ruin her trust. For now, anyways, I just try focusing on learning as much as possible from the professor, so that next time I try to reach out to Moirai, we actually get to talk.
I take my seat at the front of the classroom, one of the only ones that’s setup like a typical college lecture hall.
The Demon in the Mirror Page 2
